We Enter

 342.

"Even low-life head-bangers are protected by the liberal wisdom of our Constitution," Mustang mentions to me as we make our way to the dungeon-like, high-security temporary holding cell. I am in a phone conversation with Sergeant Crouthers making sure that we have hard-copy rap-sheet transcripts for the two perps we plan to interview. I thank the Sergeant for his help and respond to her comment.

"Yes, they are, from abusive practices by police extremists and a corrupt judicial system that is as racist as it gets. I think this is at the heart of Julie's grand vision, making sure that those otherwise lost in the systemic racist machinery have every opportunity to know their rights, more than just Miranda. They have options. I know we agree that our challenge is to make every attempt to open dialogues to explore the non-violent and alternative ones."

"On that we do agree, but it is, from what I have seen, easier said than done," she says.

We get to the subterranean floor that houses the holding cell and are immediately met with the smell of fear. A thousand tears damping musky overtones of hopelessness and septicemia.  It hits me like a cold slap in the face. I look at Mustang and see her run internal diagnostics in the attempt to isolate the contributing factors of the olfactory assault. Sgt Crouthers meets us at the caged area off the elevator. The security here is every bit as solid at that of SuperMax Florence. Sgt Crouthers is oblivious to the smells as Honey Bucket drivers become to theirs.

After brief introductions he hands me two file folders that contain the bios of the incarcerated perpetrators. I take one and hand the other to Mustang. It takes us each less than three minutes to determine that we are dealing with career criminals, that level of humanity who have chosen a path and stubbornly refuse deviation.

"Do you have two interview rooms, one for each?" I ask. He replies to the affirmative adding that they have four, asking if we would rewire videotape of our sessions.

"Yes, that would be great, we're testing a few new protocols and evidence of its success - or lack thereof - will surely have learning benefit downstream. When can you be ready?"

"We are set up and ready to roll. Let's go behind the glass and you can take a look at them before starting. They are secured to the floor and table."

We follow him down the corridor and into the control room. There is a 4x8 one-way mirror showing each of the two prisoners in the two separate rooms. In one room sits a bearded man of about 40 in a bright orange jumpsuit. He has the darting eyes of a caged animal, a big cat roaming his pen in the zoo waiting for food. In the other room a younger man, the file says he is 28, sits disgruntled with his arms folded across his chest in a defiant gesture of disdain.

"Do you have a preference?" I ask her, "Your call, and I'll take the other."

She flips back to the opening page in the file and sees that she holds the younger of the two. Perhaps feeling the touch of destiny delayed, she simply points in his direction, already it appears, formulating a game plan.

"Take it slow, you are in charge, let's stick with the protocol as long as we can. You are in no danger. Just keep to your side of the table and you'll be fine. If you want to leave at anytime, do so. Good luck."

In a gesture of confidence I take my Glock and set it on the table silently, suggesting that she do likewise with her Sig. She takes the hint and gently sets hers next to mine.

I look at Sgt Crouthers and nod. A buzzer sounds twice as two steel doors slowly open.

We enter.